A fine gesture
by D-eadLovers
Summary: Only a chosen few could appreciate the beauty that always came with sacrifice. Rated M for later chapters, as some scenes will feature violence or sexual content.
1. Chapter 1 Paradoxes

Disclaimer: i do not make any money from writing fanfictions. I do not own Harry Potter nor any of its characters. They belong to JK Rowling. However the plot of this fic is mine.

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Chapter one: Paradoxes

_JANUARY 96 TWO DAYS AFTER THE ESCAPE _

He was an artist, he thought. For from chaos and ruin, he could establish order and discipline. And from the despair and destruction of beings, he created beauty and magnificence. Only a chosen few could appreciate the glory that always came with suffering, he considered with conviction. He thus liked to think that his being vastly misunderstood was essentially due to his belonging to a better sort of beings, able to distinguish perfection where others only saw paradoxes.

It was therefore with delight that he beheld the woman he had known as simply sublime, and who was now so wonderfully broken.

Her skin was a crystalline shade of white, proper to beings who had known darkness as their only companion, and her wrists riddled with the deep, reddish marks of thick and heavy chains. She also flaunted gauntness that might have appeared alarming, had her silhouette not been as harmonious and willowy. Many scars, certainly from her own fingernails, covered the palms of her skeletal, yet still elegant hands. Other self-inflicted scars did not escape his keen eye, such as her lips, left pulpy by repeated bites, and her ankles, covered with contusions she had certainly imposed upon herself. Her raven hair, spread out over the black cotton sheet, offered a delightful contrast with the pallor of her complexion. Thus she offered the dark wizard a fascinating sight, beautiful and ruined, impaired and embellished all at once—her new appearance, forged in pain and sadness, enhancing, in his eye, her former physique.

His reveries were soon interrupted by a faint, hoarse moan, coming from the one in the huge four-poster bed in the middle of the room.

"Bella," he simply said.

"My Lord?" was the answer she gave, her voice betraying her emotion. "Why am I…"

"Bedridden? Um. I suppose one might say that the journey from Azkaban to my humble abode has hardly been a restful one for you. You lost consciousness after attempting to Apparate here."

Pausing briefly, he was not surprised to see her diaphanous skin flushing with shame, as the memories of her escape were slowly resurfacing, one by one. Too weak to accomplish the ordinary, she who, with her wand, had once done prowesses and marvels.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better than in the last fourteen years."

"I wouldn't doubt that."

"Then why did you leave me there for so long after your return?"

"Is that a reproach, Bellatrix?"

"No, my Lord," she replied hastily. "No, Master, of course not. It was merely… an observation," she eventually finished.

"I see… Then—sit up straighter, Bellatrix, would you?!—we might say that the… circumstances have not allowed me to reach you and your other imprisoned comrades before today. I am sorry for that," he spontaneously added.

Lord Voldemort could read the surprise on his subordinate's features, her expression was reflecting his own train of thought at the moment, for he did not understand the reasons that had led him to speaking such words, instead of punishing her for the cheek she had just dared to show with him.

However, she was clever enough not to say a thing about it, preferring, with reason, to apologize profusely.

"Only I ought to be sorry, I should never have… That was uncalled for, my Lord."

"Indeed."

"Please forgive me. All of this is so… I feel lost."

"Let us speak no more of it."

"Thank you, my Lord, thank you."

"No more, Bellatrix. That will do."

"All right, very well. Um, you were mentioning unfavourable circumstances… What did you mean?"

"Oh, quite right," he said with a smile. "I nearly forgot that you are not familiar with the events of those past few months. I will tell you everything you need to know after you have gotten some rest. In the meantime, you will find a few of your things in the dresser on your right. Is there anything you will need tonight? In that case, Wormtail will fetch it for you…"

Voldemort amusedly observed Bellatrix's oh-so-predictable reaction at the mention of his least respected servant. She had indeed, in a very abrupt movement, violently slammed her elbow against the headboard. It was at that point that he noticed her left forearm was wrapped in a filthy bandage, tainted red at the centre. He frowned, yet said nothing on the matter, preferring to allow Bellatrix to freely denigrate that dear Wormtail.

"Pettigrew?! This… this… scum! Lives under your roof?" she eventually uttered with disgust.

"Tsk tsk tsk, well then, Bellatrix… Tsk tsk tsk! Still just as contemptuous…" he half-heartedly reproved. "Some things never change, it seems… As for his presence here, you will understand it better once I have explained you everything. Which I am not planning to do now."

"Very well, my Lord… What about Barty, is he here as well? Oh, no, no, I know, you said later for the questions," she quickly corrected herself. "Forgive me, Master."

"I see that I have made myself clear, eventually. Very well, some rest, we were saying…"

With those words, he stood, clearly about to leave the room and her presence. But that was not counting Bellatrix, who picked this moment to call out to him.

"About what you've just told me, my Lord—indeed, I haven't changed at all."

"Ah, Bella. You couldn't be more wrong."

He walked out then, and, leaning against the thick wooden door, thought back over Bellatrix's gaze, which he hadn't had the occasion of contemplating before. Alive with a fanatical gleam, the natural blackness of her eyes seemed to be magnified by those undulating flames they sheltered. Passion and devotion, strength and determination were easy to read for anyone who would admire them.

On second thought, he judged that it was the most fascinating part of her new appearance.

_End of chapter 1_

_Reviews? _

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Thanks to Azzie for her translation skills.

Author's note: I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	2. Chapter 2 spectres

Author's Note: Forgive me for the delay. For those who commented chapter one as guests, here are your answers. **To guest one**: I shall indeed talk about Bellatrix's feelings toward Rodolphus, but not in this chapter. **To guest two**: if you want some Peter*bellatrix dialogues, you won't be disapointed by chapter three ;) I won't tell you more than that though, or that would spoil everything.

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor any of Its characters. They belong to Jk Rowling. The plot of this fic, However, is mine. _

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__Chapter two: Spectres

_JANUARY 96 THREE DAYS AFTER THE ESCAPE _

With every bucking move that shook her delicate frame, her limbs were curving in unison. As though under the yoke of some divine pace, her neck was twisting, her chest heaving, her spine bending and her waist swaying, at the infinite mercy of her internal torments. In a desperate attempt to halt the frenzied rhythm of her endless convulsions, her skeletal hands tensed around a tail of the black sheet wrapped around her bruised body. While her tremors were increasing still, her pelvis arched, her muscles tensed and a hoarse moan escaped her parted lips, as she was reaching the quintessence of affliction.

Waking at last, her cheeks adorned with sea pearls, she huddled up, shaking, fending off with scrawny arms the spectre of her prison guards whom, by hundreds, by thousands, fed relentlessly on the miseries, more numerous still, that afflicted her being.

Armed with this precarious shield, she fought ceaselessly, for hours, it seemed, until at last distress and misery deserted her soul, fleeing but still nearby, ready, as always, for the next assault.

How, she wondered, outraged—how, from torturer, had she become victim? Frustrated, she sighed in chagrin, in wrath, in irritation all at once, and, abruptly, sat up, shoulders straight, bearing proud, determined to prove that, always, she would remain independent, strong, destructive.

She would become no fragile thing, no pretty, delicate doll offering, for the world to see, the spectacle of her own destruction. Thus, intent, did she decide that she couldn't remain passive, wallowing in her weakness and suffering. She therefore started to get up, and, uncovering interminable, ivory legs, fell back hard against the ancient ebony parquet.

She repeated her attempt, to no avail, lay once more against the dark, aged wood and, in her rage, dealt the glass piece of furniture opposite her a violent blow, shattering it at the centre. Its contents scattered loudly all over the floor. Among the few black robes that formed a small silken heap near her prominent knees, and the collection of vials of every genre strewn all around (shampoo, hair conditioner, shower gel, relaxing serum, regenerative potion, she could read), she spotted her wand of walnut, perfectly polished, resplendent. She grasped it hastily, and delighted in the feeling of power that suddenly washed over her.

The magic which, for fourteen years, had flowed, drop after drop, from her noble pure blood, was now spurting up in mighty waves, in a torrent, irrigating her body with a marvelous and heady sensation.

Intoxicated, yet aware of the chaos surrounding her, she raised her wand, pointing it towards the remnants of the shattered dresser. With one sharp and firm move, the shards left the floor where they'd been nestled, reconstituting the fragile object, without leaving any crack on its surface. Then, with a sweeping gesture, she made sure that its contents found themselves again in their rightful place: the robes perfectly folded, the vials aligned, and the few personal effects that belonged to her carefully stacked (wedding ring of solid gold, identity card, Apparition license, switchblade knife, 31 Galleons, diamond necklace—courtesy of her husband—, another switchblade, and worn piece of parchment, that was to say as many objects as she had been carrying on the day of her arrest). Finally, she lingered over her injured legs, which she first treated with a Vigour spell, then she bound to them two solid midnight blue splints, which she had conjured a few moments before.

Pleased to observe that this rudimentary care, if it did not relieve her aches, would at least spare her repeated drops, she grasped one vial or two, as well as one silky set of robes, then got up, meaning to search for a bathroom.

Quietly padding along the corridor, she kept staring at her bare feet, concerned about avoiding an upteenth fall. When, instead of the long and fluffy carpet that adorned the hallway, she only found a parquet identical to the one of her own bedroom, Bellatrix eventually deigned to raise her head.

A smile graced her scarlet lips as she beheld the so-familiar silhouette of a man who sat, oddly straight, with his back to her, on a rusted metal chair at the centre of the room.

With light chestnut hair and a slight stature, he wore, like her, a bright orange outfit that was covered with dust.

_End of chapter two_

**_Want to make a fanfiction writer happy? Then, Review, please. _**

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Aknowledgment: Thank you to Azzie for her translation skills.

Author's note: I Hope you enjoyed this chapter, it was rather short but necessary to introduce Bellatrix properly, and to show that, unlike what Voldemort thought, her failure at disaparating was due to physical exhaustion, not to magical issues. As you might have guessed Thanks to the last sentence of this chapter, the story really begins in chapter three. As I am currently writing it, then it Will need to get though the translation process, So it Will be online in less than two weeks, I think. Oh, and again, please review!


	3. Interlude 1: The protégé's silence

Guests Reviews answers**:** To guest one and two: Every single event of this fic is planned in advance. But lucky you, I've planned to include some Bellatrix/Peter dialogue….in the next chapter (If you've read the author's note, you got that it was supposed to be in this chapter). I hope you won't be disapointed by it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor any of its characters. They belong to JK Rowling. I do not make any money from writing fanfictions.

_This is an interlude, so it is shorter than a real chapter. _

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**INTERLUDE I: The protégé's silence **

_JANUARY 96 THREE DAYS AFTER THE ESCAPE _

Hundreds of frames of gold and silver decorated the walls of the modest room the man had taken possession of.

Their precious glow reflected off the milk-white nape of his neck, which was besides frozen in an unnatural posture, his appearance which of a statue of noble metal.

Motionless in the middle of a plethora of moving pictures, he seemed indifferent to Bellatrix's presence, although her long, jet-black hair was brushing the fabric that covered his shoulders, near as she stood. Slowly bending her head so as to close the slight distance that was left between them, she brought her lips almost to his ear, though not a single syllable escaped them.

A mischievous smile graced her gaunt face as she remembered how easily impressionable he was. _How many times had she, along with Antonin, had fun unsettling him, so hilarious was the expression he would wear at those moments?_

Yet he did not tremble at the touch of her lips against his skin, nor did he waver under the irregular skimming of her scorchingly hot breath. To her great surprise, he remained stubbornly silent, without the faintest motion to prove he was aware of the older woman's actions.

"Not saying hello anymore, are you? Did you forget your manners in your Azkaban cell?" she said in a shaky voice, though she was trying for a lilt. "And your reflexes as well, for what I can see…"

"Are you planning to come and greet me sometime, or would you rather stay stuck on that chair, as rigid as the statue of the one-eyed witch?" she added, her tone betraying her impatience at last.

_And indeed,_ _a statue would have been less introverted than her interlocutor was at this point_, she couldn't help noticing.

And yet, the boy she remembered was as affable as he was energetic. Thoroughly unable to mask his emotions, his every attempt in that regard had always ended with outbursts of laughter, screaming or tears, depending on the mood he was then trying to conceal.

That was one of the reasons why she had found him so refreshing, and had sincerely taken to him, as had her closest comrades. An affection he had, for that matter, always returned, which strengthened Bellatrix's conviction that such manners did not fit his character.

Then again, she then remembered—worry and sadness in the place of her customary stony façade—_ people changes, in Azkaban_.

This possibility, as conceivable as she knew it to be in her heart, she could not resign herself to admitting. Her return to civil life would be arduous enough a task without her close ones turning into strangers.

However, that was not her sole reason for being so intrigued. Indeed, since she had walked into the room, she had not seen him move a muscle, or flex a joint. _He was as though… petrified,_ she observed. Frowning, she concluded that there was no use speculating when the answers were to be found only a few inches away.

"I'd be curious to know what is prompting you to act this way," she started, stepping around him so they would find themselves face to face. "I've never seen you so… Oh, dear Lord! Oh my Goodness!"

Skin blue-stained in places and gaze vacant, a thin cloud of icy steam seemed to drift from his nose and his parted mouth.

Smothering a sob, she slid to her knees as a skeletal hand was raised to cover her mutilated lips, her eyes fixed on the unrecognizable face of Barty Crouch Junior.

_End of chapter three_

_*I am a review monster and you got to feed me* _

**_Review, please? _**

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**Author's note**: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. What you need to remember is that every single detail has its importance. Morever, if there is something that seems unlogical or not canon (as for Barty's presence, for example) it just means it will be explained in later chapters. This is the point of suspense, isn't it? Oh and to me (but that is just my head canon) Barty was Bellatrix's protégé, this why I named this chapter the way I did.

Credits: Thank you to my Beta Reader and translator, Azzie.


	4. Chapter 4 Shameful Likenesses

Author's note: Hello guys, here is the fourth chapter. I really do hope you will enjoy. Before starting it, please be advised this chapter contains violence and is therefore M-rated. Thanks to all of those taking time to read this story and those who left me a review.

_Enjoy. _

Chapter 4- Shameful Likenesses

_JANUARY 96 THREE DAYS AFTER THE ESCAPE (SAME MOMENT AS INTERLUDE I) . _

**Warning: chapter rated M, for violent content.**

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Not one day went by in which Peter didn't get called an idiot. But would an idiot, he would gladly have asked his detractors, have survived where so many had fallen? For he was certain of it: not one of those so-called geniuses, in a similar situation, could have deployed such effective stratagems as his had proved. Thus he found, in those feats, the reasons of a sense of superiority which, in his opinion, was completely justified. Oh, of course, his master would have dismissed such considerations with a wave of his skeletal hands, explaining, as though to a dull-witted child, that this was at most a selective ingenuity, fueled by his low survival instincts, rooted so deep within his being, as they were in every animal. Which was a lucky occurrence, he would have added, since he was, after all, _a rat._

Far from taking offense, Peter, on the contrary, liked to think that in that regard, he was not so different from his master. For although he had never grasped anything of the Dark Lord's research and experiments, nor of the endless equations and complex spells spread out over the board of the tiny office in which the latter often shut himself, he had understood their main design: to survive. Quite obviously, he would never dare to voice such thoughts aloud.

_"How outrageous_!" Barty would have yelled, ready for anything to defend the honour of the man for whom he had spent so many years of his life between the walls of despair, while Peter himself was playing the perfect pet, as he liked to remind him. But what should he be ashamed of? Proving smart enough not to rot for thirteen years in a high-security cell? He cared nothing that Barty found him to be "a coward" or "a traitor", two nicknames he had taken to calling him daily, back when he still could talk. For dear Crouch could prance all he liked, with his superior looks, so proud of his magical and intellectual abilities way beyond the ordinary, puffed up with pride and vanity (and the Dark Lord was responsible for that, constantly rhapsodizing about his cleverness, his loyalty and the one who had taught him everything), that had not kept him from ending up as a pitiful vegetable, unable to so much as feed on his own. After all, he had only gotten what he deserved.

Oh, what intense satisfaction he had felt two days ago, when Mulciber and Macnair had brought him back from Azkaban. However, it had only lasted very little, as it had been eclipsed by the nauseating task that awaited him. For it was obvious that he was being relegated, once more, to the role of a nurse. He would be the one who had to take care of the imbecile, as he had for the Dark Lord once the latter had had a rudimentary body again. But the comparison stopped right there, as nothing would ever have been able to prepare him to such a repulsive task as to take care of Barty Crouch Junior.

His vacant stare, within which, if one looked closely enough, flimsy white wreaths could be seen undulating. And this thin, bluish steam, as icy as his skin felt to the touch, which could not be rid of, even by the stifling temperature of his bedroom. And this strange rigidity he showed, as though there were "something" left that kept him hovering between life and death—despite his being nothing but an empty shell anymore. He was an aberration, and Peter would have given anything so he didn't have to come anywhere near him anymore.

But who was he fooling with that wish? There were only two of them in Riddle Manor: the Dark Lord and himself. It was therefore obvious that he would be the one who had to feed, clean and tend to _faithful_ Barty. Besides, he had noticed that their master had not seemed moved by the fate of his youngest servant for very long. Instead, he had virtually spent the last two days in the bedroom at the end of the corridor, only leaving it to drink or bombard Peter with instructions, each one more mundane than the next. (Make _sure to bring me several vials of dittany_, he had imperiously demanded. _And hygiene products, women's underwear, black robes of the following size, two Death Eater uniforms, polish this wand for me and prepare me a soup_, _blah blah__ and__ blah.)_

Beside those rare moments, he hadn't seen him once and as he had been strictly banned from entering the room, under any circumstance, he didn't know who might be staying there.

However, a lot less idiotic than many seemed to believe, he could conclude from the objects he had had to fetch that it was a woman, from the worry marking the Dark Lord's features that she was ill, and from the concern he seemed to feel, that she was close to him. As close as one might be to such a person as Lord Voldemort, that was. And judging from the date of her arrival, she doubtlessly came straight from Azkaban.

And he could still hear the echo of Sirius' last words about him.

_"The double-crosser double-crossed them…"_

Fear suddenly overcame him.

Indeed, although his master had promised him absolute secrecy about his identity when he had contacted him for the first time, he had afterwards been led to run into a few high-ranking Death Eaters. Moreover, if Sirius' claims were true, then it meant that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named must have, be it only once, divulged his name to one of his loyal servants. If that were to be the case… he preferred not to think about it.

Draining the last of his coffee, he remembered that he had forgotten to lock the door of the wacko's bedroom, and, mindful of avoiding a punishment from his master, went to its threshold so he might shut it. Not that he understood the necessity of such a measure_… It was not, after all, as if he might run away_, he thought aloud, with a foolish snort.

However, had he seen beforehand the person he now found himself facing, his legendary survival instinct would certainly have prevented him from showing such tactlessness.

Bellatrix Lestrange, kneeling beside Barty, tracks of dried tears on her crystal-clear skin, and wearing a hateful look that was aimed towards him. She was oddly beautiful, although he couldn't really tell why, her hair being dishevelled, her skin marred with contusions and her lips bruised. And at this moment, she seemed to radiate anger like Barty radiated coldness, and he would have run in terror, had she not thrown him into the wall with a motion of her wand.

"How dare you mock Barty's sacrifice?" she roared. "What you see here is his gift to the Dark Lord! Fourteen years of his life under the Dementors' yoke! And what did you give him, you wretched scum? Well? Where were you? WHERE WERE YOU?"

"I… no choice," was the sham of an answer that Peter managed to stammer.

"WE ALL HAD A CHOICE," she shrieked, grabbing him by the neck and strangling him, elegant hands against hardened skin. "I know what you've done," she went on. "Oh, how many nights have I heard my cousin screaming! Only few of us knew that you had been the one to send the Dark Lord to his death. But don't worry," she murmured, her gaze alight with a fanatical glow. "I have seen to it that they would find out."

She did not look away from Pettigrew's hideous face, taking great delight in the power that overwhelmed her while his complexion took a bluish shade that reminded of Barty's. "I will make you pay, Pettigrew, believe me." She slammed his skull hard against the ebony wood, causing a dull noise.

"I…" Peter hiccupped, "helped… made… up… for…"

"Shut it, you idiot! Nothing can make up for such betrayal as yours! Nothing, you hear? CRUCIO! The Dark Lord doesn't forgive. And you know what? Neither do I."

The stiffness and ache she was suffering from would normally have rendered impossible such a display of strength, but the rage she was feeling at this instant momentarily counterbalanced her muscles' weakness. Thus she observed in satisfaction as Peter's body thrashed under her wand while his breath was stopping under her hand. But a searing pain soon seized her slim fingers, while her wand suddenly flew out of her grasp.

"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?" the Dark Lord shouted, his wand aimed towards Bellatrix, clearly alerted by the din that the altercation between his two servants had caused. "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, FOR MERLIN'S SAKE, BELLATRIX!"

The only answer he received was silence, and her gaze, still blazing with hatred, raised towards him. Her chest heaving, she was rubbing her left hand, covered with purulent blisters, one more wound to be added to the long list of those she already bore.

"My Lord," implored Peter, who seemed to have regained at least some of his breath. "She tried to kill me… With no reason, she…"

"Do be quiet," Voldemort interrupted threateningly.

"But my Lord, she…"

"I just told you, be quiet! Leave this room this instant, I wish to talk to Bellatrix. I will deal with you later."

Peter, immediately turning into a rat, didn't need to be told twice before he scuttled to the exit. As soon as the door was shut, the Dark Lord's yells resumed with even greater intensity.

"You are barely out of a semicoma and the first thing you do is try to kill my servant! What is wrong with you?"

He wanted to shake her, to slap her, to hurt her so he might shove a little common sense into her brain, which, however, often impressed him with its brilliant ideas. But she only gazed wordlessly at him, with an enraged look that wasn't intended for him.

"Answer me, Bellatrix!"

"He deserved it!" Bellatrix started on the same tone. "He dared, he dared mock Barty's sacrifice. This repulsive piece of scum—I know what he's done, I know that he fled like a coward after sending you to the Potters'. Leaving my cousin Sirius to bear the blame, hiding and denying every link with you instead of proudly accepting the consequences! I only gave him a foretaste of what we endured in Azkaban. How dare he? HOW DARE HE?" she repeated very fast.

Catching her breath at last, she seemed pacified after having been able to express all of her resentment for Pettigrew to her Lord and master. "And," she added, "I wasn't planning to kill him."

"If I hadn't just arrived he would have died asphyxiated," he replied, one pitch lower. "And in those difficult times, Bellatrix, I cannot afford to lose followers, no matter how mediocre! _I _am the one to decide who, in my ranks, may live or die, and you would do well to remember that!"

"But he cannot be trusted! He isn't one of us… He turned his back on this goddamned Order of the Phoenix as soon as he got the chance, and he will do the same with us when the opportunity appears!" Bellatrix retorted, pleading.

"And you think that I am not already prepared for such an eventuality? Do you think that so mediocre a wizard could fool me, Lord Voldemort, the greatest dark wizard of all times?"

"No, my Lord, you are well aware that I didn't mean that," she growled in frustration.

"Stop suggesting it with your actions, then! Moreover, I had commanded you to rest, and all I see you do is to use the little strength you have regained to strangle an imbecile," he finished, visibly calmer, but exasperated.

"I know. I know. Forgive me, my Lord. I feel much better than I did yesterday. Well, I am not at my best yet, but it is only physical. At least my magic is not affected."

"Oh, I quite saw that, with the manner you had of torturing Wormtail."

"Wormtail? Is that how you call him?"

"Yes. I care nothing for that idiot, but I understand that one might wish to be called by the name they choose, whatever that may be."

"Ah."

"I heard the whole conversation, if one might call that a conversation, since one of you was speaking while the other was suffocating. I therefore conclude that you wish to know what happened to Barty…"

"Yes, please, my Lord."

"That is quite the long story. Come and sit first," he told her, more as an order than a request, his hand extended to her, commanding her to sit with him on the edge of the small and outdated bed.

Once they were settled, he began telling the story that had been his for the last fourteen years, his immaterial state, over which he did not linger, then his unforeseen encounter with Pettigrew after twelve years of wandering, his return to Riddle Manor where he won some strength back. Barty's escape, an anecdote that surprised Bellatrix greatly, then the apparition of the Dark Mark at the middle of the Quidditch World Cup, which he was responsible for. The meeting between Barty, Pettigrew and himself at Crouch Senior's home, and the manner in which, after Imperiusing the father, he had organized, with the son, the ritual that would give him a body again, thus bringing him back to power. Throughout his tale, Bellatrix's face expressed anger, astonishment or satisfaction, but she did not interrupt him once.

"So… It is partly thanks to Barty that you were able to return?" she asked, her aristocratic features portraying a mix of pride and sadness.

"Yes, it is."

"But that does not explain what he is doing here! I mean, if he escaped like you said he had… And if he did all of those things… Why is he this way?"

"Because after completing his mission, he could not come back to us as planned. According to Lucius, who knows it from the Minister of Magic, he was confounded by Dumbledore right before joining us, and he was kissed by the Dementors behind the old fool's back. I believed that the Ministry had gotten rid of him after that. Or else, that he had been sent to St. Mungo's. But as it seems, he was simply put back into the adjacent cell to Antonin's. Therefore, when your comrades came to free you all, they found him and brought him here."

Bellatrix nodded, but remained silent. Having nothing further to say, Voldemort only observed the walls, that were covered with moving images of smiling witches and benevolent-eyed wizards. But one picture, huge as it was, caught his attention. Following his gaze, Bellatrix rose, took the photograph and came back to her master's side.

Taken before a splendid baroque manor, the photo depicted about fifty wizards, all dressed in black. One of them, Evan Rosier, was holding a sign that said "D.E.: 1980", while bouncing up and down in the silliest fashion. Beside him stood Crabbe, blank-eyed, and Rabastan, looking exasperated. On the row above, Antonin was giving the lens the finger, while Bellatrix struggled to keep a straight face, Rodolphus' hand on her shoulder as he was smiling himself. And at the middle, Barty, holding his head high, was attempting not to let himself be distracted, and failing dismally.

"I didn't know this picture existed," Voldemort commented. "That was hardly very careful of you all."

"It was Evan's idea. And carefulness never was his strongest point, as you well know.

"May I keep it, my Lord?"

"I see nothing against it. What's more, with the amount of images these walls are decorated with, adding or removing one will hardly make a difference. He took all of those frames on the day we left his father's home to come and stay here. Actually, I never quite understood this… decorative fancy."

"That was no fancy," Bellatrix responded at once. "That was a shield."

"Pardon me?"

"An image of a Patronus if you prefer."

"Ah," he said, his face attesting that he found this explanation just as scatterbrained as the idea itself.

"When for years on end, you have been exposed to the plague of Dementors, your soul always bears their mark. Thus, even when you are no longer exposed, the memory remains, and always, when you are alone in the dark, your worse fears take over, as though they were still here, looming over you, feeding on your despair. And what would be the use of producing a Patronus to chase away Dementors that aren't there? However, just like with a Patronus, the only way to drive out a Dementor is to remember happy enough, strong enough moments to make you immune to their moral torture. But the longer one has dwelled alongside them, the harder it becomes to summon such beautiful memories again. That is why he surrounded himself with all those images: when he opens his eyes, almost overwhelmed by despair, then he finds himself surrounded by his close ones, by wonderful periods of his short life, and then, he doesn't go under."

Voldemort, at this moment, would have liked to tell her that he found this truly ridiculous, but all of her face radiated sincerity, and he knew that he could not contradict her. He knew nothing, after all, of the suffering the Dementors brought.

"At any rate, all of this will be of little use to him now. Bella, look at me. Pettigrew has been given the task of tending to him, I must confess I do not know what to do with Barty, but he has been faithful and thus he will not be abandoned. You may come here whenever you so desire . As for Wormtail, I know that you cannot stand him, but since he lives here, you will have to cohabit with him, and I will not tolerate being woken once more by your hysterical screams, no matter what he has done. I can assure you that next time, there will be consequences, Bellatrix. And perhaps you cannot forget the pain of Azkaban, but I advise you to also keep in mind the pain that Ican inflict you.

"On another matter, seeing all of this," he said, pointing to the hygiene products scattered across the floor, "I may safely conclude that you were looking for the bathroom: that would be the first door to the right. Now then, go back to rest. At this moment half of my troops are completely unable to perform a mission of any kind, and that must cease. Shortly.

"I have things to be doing, you are dismissed.

"Ah, and Bellatrix…" he added as she was about to leave him, "I have to talk to you about this and that, expect to be summoned sometime during the following day."

"Of course, my Lord," she murmured, bowing to him with a graceful curtsey. "I'm looking forward to it," she added, a slight rosy shade like a soft spring illuminating her wintry features.

With those last words, loaded with all the emotion she was feeling, both because of her protégé's fate and the interview her master had promised, she left the room of a thousand images.

_End of chapter 3_

_Reviews, please? _

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Author's note**: **Thank you for reading. This one was a bit longer than chapter one/two/interlude. Chapters are going to be that long from now on.

Beta-reading and translation by Inkfire


	5. Chapter 5 The other side of appearances

Author's note: I know it took me ages, but the fifth chapter 5 (the fourth as the third one was an interlude but whatever) is now up. I hope you will enjoy it. Feedback is always welcome, so, please, leave a review.

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor any of its characters. They belong to JK Rowling. The plot of the fic, is, however, mine. I do not make money from writing fanfictions._

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Chapter 5-The Other Side of Appearances

_JANUARY 96 THREE DAYS AFTER THE ESCAPE _

Clothed in silk and lace, she had done her hair up in a thick and jet-black bun. A stray lock wandered down the back of her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone to complete its journey against her modest bosom, that her outfit, however, barely succeeded in concealing. She delighted in the touch of the noble fabric against her skin, after so many years spent wearing robes that were as rough as unbecoming. The frivolity of such considerations was not unknown to her, and she would certainly have despised them, had her blood not been as pure, or her birth as prestigious. For although she had but little interest in the matters of fashion, she knew superficiality to be the mother of appearances, and could only treasure those if she did not wish her tormented soul to become prey to the predatory gazes of her peers. Refined clothing, costly jewellery and haughty demeanour were but so many elements that went hand in hand with her rank. And that was something she must live up to, as she always had, to require respect. However, she was nothing like a vapid doll, and thus had always made sure to shine for her talent. Yet she knew that endowments of the spirit would not be sufficient to garantee her durability, if she did not bury her weaknesses beneath a heap of lace and silk, ancient coats of arms and disdainful expressions. Therefore she displayed nothing of her emotions, except for wrath and contempt, and it was the latter that adorned her face at the moment, as shrill screeches resonated from the upper floor.

It had been twenty minutes already, she judged from experience, and the pathetic howling carried on, so sonorous that she couldn't even hear the squeaking of her quill, which slid over the yellowed surface of a roll of parchment. Thin wafts of smoke were escaping her lips, while the owl hooted and flitted about overhead, visibly bothered by the charcoal-grey cloud it was surrounded with.

"Hush, Ollie," came Bellatrix's mumbled answer, as she was still immersed in her correspondence.

Sealing each missive with blue wax, she gestured for the bird to come and land on her arm.

"Ollie," she started to distract it, while she tied a ribbon to the animal's leg so that it could transport several missives, "the first one is for Narcissa Malfoy, Malfoy Manor, Chelmsford, Essex, the second one for Walburga Black, 12 Grimmauld Square, London, and the third one for Rodolphus Lestrange… I don't know where he is at the moment, so you will have to look for him, won't you?" she said, her hand gently petting the bird's golden feathers. "Off you go, then."

* * *

He was gazing, captivated, at the reptilian reflection in the dusty pane opposite which he was seated.

In the new outline of his features, he appreciated every detail.

For each and every one of them had been forged in the power of the darkest charms and the glory of his resurrection. And from their communion, a harmony emerged, disconcerting enough to be intelligible only by a minuscule elite of prestigious minds, of which, he had resigned himself to thinking, he seemed to be the sole relict. As for the crowd of the ordinary, he had observed with no great astonishment, they saw nothing but ugliness in the atypical quality of his face, the scarlet shade of his eyes, the thinness of his hands and the pallor of his skin. They could grasp neither their symbolism, nor their coherence.

In the Potter boy's emerald gaze, he had seen revulsion in its purest form, before it was entirely eclipsed by the terror of upcoming death. And in his Death Eaters', he could read similar emotions, qualified by the macabre adoration they all vowed him. None of them, with their simple minds, could comprehend the impressiveness of his new appearance, a fruit of pure magic, as unusual as it might be.

None of them but _her._

When, for the first time in fourteen years, she had laid eyes on him, drowsy and unfit to perform the most minimal form of Occlumency in her exhaustion, he found himself fascinated by the accuracy with which she perceived his peculiar appearance.

"_That is the tangible projection of his soul_," was what she had precisely thought.

He would certainly have been flattered to find himself the origin of such considerations, had he not deemed that it was only his due. He was, after all, superior, and therefore felt that admiration was nothing but one of the many rights he was appropriately entitled to.

However, he could not deny that this eulogistic description, issued from no other than Bellatrix, satisfied him greatly. At least he was assured that during the interview that would follow, unlike her comrades, who, on the day of his return, had only cared about the pain he might inflict on them, she would listen to his tale with the sincerest attention. He could picture her already, hanging onto every syllable he would pronounce, soaking up each word, utterly captivated.

He smiled to himself.

"Wormtail, your arm.

"Your arm, Wormtail. Now." From the corner of his eye he saw him, more rodent than man, awkwardly stretch out his forearm, five pudgy fingers knocking pitifully against the leg of the armchair he was comfortably reclining in. A cruel, contemptuous laugh filled the room as he looked down at his servant. "You do not seriously believe that I will bother to lean your way, Wormtail? No, no. You will get up, and give me your arm," he said, smiling. "Forthwith."

"Forgive me, my Lord," came Pettigrew's barely audible answer, as the man clung pitifully to the impressive Louis XVI-style desk, the mark he wasn't worthy of prominent upon his yellowish skin.

His waxen cheeks covered with dried tears, he was displaying his weakness, and it was with a terrified look that he felt the familiar burning sensation overcome him, as his master mercilessly dug the tip of his wand into the tattooed flesh. Its customary reddish hue was replaced with a glaring green, which he had no time to behold, as his master had taken care of pushing his arm away roughly, causing a fall that his weakened muscles could not prevent.

He collapsed dismally, like a heap of old rags, against the ebony floor.

"Leave me. And leave the door _open,_" he said, laying upon this last word an emphasis that echoed the punishment he had just put him under. For he abhorred ineptitude, and the fact that someone who already struggled to make themselves useful could not respect such simple instructions as to close a door made him lose patience entirely. Thus he had subjected Wormtail to various forms of torture—he could display quite refreshing creativity in the matter—until the latter had lost consciousness. He was therefore not surprised that he immediately Disapparated from the room, as soon as he had been dismissed. And then came a second crack, that followed the former, coming from nearby.

A feminine voice, softer than usual, called out to him from the doorstep.

"You may enter, Bellatrix. Come here."

"Of course, my Lord," she replied, slipping into a kneeling position at his feet, her features twisting in pain as her bruised limbs met the thick board.

_Ah. Her ludicrous determination_, he abruptly remembered.

He had nearly forgotten how entertaining she could prove to be. Indeed, to say the truth, he was more than disposed, given the state she was in, to disregard propriety. But to see her this way, struggling so he would not see her in pain, although he had intimate knowledge of every one of her wounds, amused him so greatly that he couldn't but leave her to her agony for a few more moments.

"That will do, Bellatrix. You may sit," he eventually said, offering her a bony hand, which she gladly seized.

"Thank you, my Lord."

"Water?" he asked once she was seated, his yew wand half-raised.

"Whisky?" she replied on the same tone.

This amused her interlocutor, who, with a wry "Of course, I forgot who I was addressing", summoned two full glasses of steaming alcohol.

"Let us get straight to the point," he began once she had taken hold of her glass. "What do you know, besides what I've already told you at dawn, of what happened to me after… Potter caused my downfall?"

"Nothing but the rumours that abounded during the few weeks following your disappearance. Rumours to which I never granted the slightest credit, my Lord, I can assure you."

"And what were those rumours?"

"To repeat them would be betrayal in itself."

"Your devotion is touching, but I am afraid this is not a request at all."

"That if you had… been defeated by the child," she answered after taking care to shut her dark eyes, "it was because he was himself destined to become a powerful dark wizard… A standard around which we could rally in the future."

Opening her eyes again at last, she saw her master's scarlet irises gleaming with anger and, as though bewitched, she couldn't look away.

"Is that what they said? Really? A dark wizard… hmmm… do you know, Bella, what was the boy's first reaction when he found himself facing me, my wand aimed at his frantically pounding heart?"

"A green spark by way of Avada Kedavra?"

"Expelliarmus, Bellatrix. Expelliarmus."

As he had easily predicted, Bellatrix burst out laughing, the racket she made slightly diminished by the hand she pressed against her lips so that the brown liquid that was still there would not spill. "Dear me, Expelliarmus," she said at last. "Expelliarmus-_Expelliarmus_?"

"The one and only."

"Ooooh, how could I miss that!" she deplored as she wiped her watery eyes with the back of a hand. "Those are quite sad last words."

At this sentence, his gaze, from which she had yet to detach herself, turned from madder to carmine, and he rose quite abruptly, his wand then slipping from his hand.

"He is not dead, Bellatrix."

"I'm sorry? I do not understand… You said that Barty had brought him to you, and…"

"Be quiet," he interrupted curtly, "I know what I said. Things are much more complicated than you imagine. That is why we must talk… as of today you know less than all of your comrades put together, it is therefore important that you should listen to me carefully."

"Forgive me, I did not want to offend you, I merely thought that…"

"I know.

"Potter," he stated after a deep intake of breath, "has… escaped me. Wormtail had set him free so that we might fight in a duel…"

"You gave him the privilege of a duel?!"

"I have to admit I was curious to see what the boy was worth. At least, for want of getting rid of him, my curiosity was satisfied."

"Yes, yes, Expelliarmus… By the way, is it me or does it get even more ridiculous, the more we repeat it?"

"The second solution," he replied, unable to hold back the smile that appeared impulsively on his thin lips. "Anyway, no matter. After having pathetically convulsed, screamed and begged, and once he'd understood that I had not gathered my followers with the intent of playing hide-and-seek among the graves, it seems that he resolved to… stake it all. That was when the much talked about _Expelliarmus_"—they both spoke the last word in unison—"came into play, and smashed head-on into the curse I was sending myself. Something I still do not explain to myself happened then: a thin thread of light formed and linked our two wands, and both of them began trembling while the curses mine had cast started being displayed in reverse order."

"Priori Incantatem?"

"In all likelihood. I would never have imagined that events would take such a turn, and I have to confess that I did not know what to do when my most recent victims, one by one, left the core of my wand and came to stand by the boy's side, breathing all kinds of encouragement to him. He took advantage of my bewilderment to break the link and, running off at quite an astonishing speed, he grabbed the Portkey and returned to Hogwarts to cower in Dumbledore's skirts."

"I see…" she murmured.

"And as long as we weren't _perfectly_ ready, _nobody_ was supposed to know that I had regained my body and my powers. But since Potter witnessed my rebirth, and walked out of it alive, nothing could keep him from divulging the details of my return to power to everyone around him. As a result, I currently find myself with half of my forces completely incapable of fighting, whereas Dumbledore has been able to leisurely gather again his _precious_ Order of the Phoenix, ready to thwart any offensive I might wish to launch."

"Even with splints on both of my feet, I could crush his so-called organization to dust," Bellatrix commented disdainfully.

"You could indeed. And who is claiming that, the witch who was in agony just a few seconds ago, merely because she had rested her leg against a rigid surface?

"Do you understand why it is necessary that you heal, Bellatrix? You are by far the most efficient", he told her, paying no heed to the powder pink shade that coloured her opalescent complexion, "and soon, very soon, I shall need you to fight in my name. You must, it is essential, be operational."

"I will be, my Lord, I promise you."

"I hope that you will not disappoint me."

"I wouldn't dare, my Lord, not ever. Your aims and mine are one and the same, you know that."

"I can only hope so, Bellatrix."

"I thought that after all of _this_, you would endow me with a little more than mere hope," she retorted, visibly hurt.

"This is not about _you_, Bellatrix, but about all of those I had granted the honour of following me, all of those who renounced me when the time came when I truly needed them."

"I tried to make them see reason, my Lord, I swear it, I swear," she answered, her voice become shrill.

"It seems that it did not suffice, Bella. Twelve years, Bella, twelve years! Twelve long years during which I only survived by possessing common animals. Twelve years of hiding, wretched, in a forest so far away from my native land. Twelve years of waiting for one of my loyal servants to join me and make the necessary sacrifice of their flesh, that would allow me to seize power again. But none of them came. A whole army had sworn allegiance to me, Bellatrix, but no one came. No one. Not even you, Bellatrix. Oh, how disappointed I was when I understood that you wouldn't come either. All this energy spent turning you into the extraordinary witch you had grown to become. All this time wasted making you the perfect follower…"

"I'm begging you, my Lord. I did not betray you, I did not renounce you. I tried everything to find you, but they arrested me first. And even from between the walls of the Ministry, I never pretended that I didn't know you. We were so close to the goal, my Lord, so very close. But there were so many rumours, we had to be sure," she implored, tearful. "I did not betray you, I did not renounce you," she repeated, clinging to the sleeve of his flannel robes with a shaking hand.

A long, skeletal finger came to rest on her parted lips then, not to soothe her, but to make her cease this exhausting outburst. He appreciated her strong, stubborn, sarcastic, bright, insolent, sometimes even deranged, but he could not stand her when she relentlessly babbled things he already knew, as if her own life depended on it. Did she truly believe that he would have stayed by her bedside for two days, had he still believed her to be a traitor? In all likelihood she did not know, though, that he had dispensed treatment and remedies to her without a break, when she had been brought to him, unconscious, on the day of her escape. He hoped, for that matter, that it would remain this way. At any rate, had she not been treated well enough to figure out that she did not count any longer, in his view, among the ranks of the defectors?

"That is enough, Bellatrix. Enough! I know all of this, do you hear me? I did believe, for a long time, that you had betrayed me as well, but Wormtail, when questioned on the issue, told me that you, along with Rabastan, Rodolphus and Barty, had been sentenced to a lifetime of prison after attempting to find me. Then Barty himself came to clarify the matter: he explained me what had happened…"

"I would never have abandoned you, my Lord…"

"I know that, Bellatrix, calm down!"

"But I failed…"

"QUIET, Bellatrix, immediately!"

It was astonishing, he noticed, the empathy she felt for his person, whereas she could not even show an ounce of compassion while inflicting terrible agony on people whose only crime had been to stand in her way.

"It is true that your faithfulness, sincere as it may have been, did not serve me greatly from your prison cell. However, now more than ever, I am aware of how important and rare true loyalty is. If more of my men had acted the way you did, I would certainly not have wasted so many years erring aimlessly. If you had fallen into disfavour, Bella, I can assure you, you would have known it. As soon as you arrived.

"Like all of those who did not deny having been my Death Eaters, you will be rewarded. Whatever you might wish, Bella, you will have it."

She had stopped interrupting him, he was glad to observe. And her breathing, which had been staccato a few instants before, had become calm and even again. She had released his sleeve, which she'd been clinging to for the last two minutes, but her eyes still shone with heavy tears, threatening to spill. But their source was no longer distress, nor was it even joy, as he could have imagined. No, this was an emotion he himself consorted with daily.

Hatred.

"Then I want them to suffer."

_End of chapter 4_

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Author's note: I hope you liked this chapter. Next chapter will be online in two weeks, I believe, as my exams are now over.

Oh and yes, my Bellatrix is a heavy smoker!

Translation and proofreading by Azzie (Inkfire)


	6. Chapter 6: the disciples of Sade

Author's note: Hello everybody, here is chapter six, all pretty and ready for you guys ;) I really do hope you will enjoy it. Tell me what you thought of it. On a different note, I wanted to thank you for taking time to read and/or review. Also, thank you to those who started following this fic or added it to their fave fics list.

This chapter is rated M for violent content

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Chapter 5: Tom, My Beloved Tom NO I AM KIDDING! (Mouhaha, You see, Azzie I did it!)

Chapter 6: The Disciples of Sade

_JANUARY 96 THREE DAYS AFTER THE ESCAPE _

"I want to see them suffer for every minute in which they did not bring you any help. For the moment in which they dared to renounce you. For the one in which they left us be sent between those icy walls without a word. And for all those years spent teaming up with the enemy.

"I want them to suffer like we suffered for you. I want them to suffer like you suffered because of them."

Very slowly, he withdrew his finger from her bruised lips, and went back to sit in the armchair he had vacated a little before. His hands against the armrests, he caressed the patterns that ornamented them, while staring into her face.

"In sum, you wish me to let you torture my men, without any restriction?"

"Oh no, no, no. I want _you_ to torture them, without _any _restriction. Their pathetic bodies convulsing under your wand, that is the reward I desire," she breathed.

"And you wish me to do that for everyone to see?"

"Yes. It is with their stomach in knots that each one of them will know that he is to be the next one to endure the unbearable. And it is with the greatest humiliation that they will remember having poured out endless pleas, before the faithful and the traitors alike. It would be quite a shame to deny them such… emotions."

"Bella, Bella, Bella…" he whispered, delighted with her sadism. "How could I ever doubt you?"

"Should I take that as a yes, my Lord?" she asked with fake innocence, ignoring the fire that made her cheeks blaze.

For no reward, she'd thought, was worth seeing her master get his revenge. But no revenge, on second thoughts, could be worth the Dark Lord's gratitude. Thus the words he had just pronounced, purely rhetoretically, offered, in her eyes, the most precious trophy he could ever grant her.

"Oh yes, a _thousand_ times, Bellatrix," he replied, his voice a promise of cruelty.

"And when will I have the pleasure of attending such a beautiful spectacle, my Lord?"

"I think tonight will be perfect."

"Will a meeting be held tonight?"

"Yes, there will be two of them, actually. But all of this is of little importance. That is, after all, the very purpose of your Mark."

"Of course, my Lord."

"Very well, Bella, I have many things to be doing, particularly in anticipation of the… events that have just been added on tonight's agenda.

"While you await your… reward," he said, motioning with a pallid hand to the tiny door, "go back to rest."

Visibly disappointed to find herself deprived of her master's presence so quickly, she nevertheless did not allow her dismissal to sadden her. Delighted by both the fruitful interview they had just shared and the prospect of her oncoming reward, she bid him goodbye with a smile.

"Very well, my Lord. I will see you tonight, my Lord."

He watched her walk away without a word.

As soon as she'd closed the door, he took hold of his wand, that lay forgotten at his feet. Carefully, he vanished the dusty residue that had gathered over it. He had always looked after it with the greatest meticulousness. He was therefore saddened that it had remained, for twelve years, buried beneath a heap of dirt and ashes. Likewise, he was absolutely repulsed by the sheer idea that Wormtail's hand had so much as brushed its surface.

His wand was his sceptre, the foundation of his power, and should, as such, be treated with all due deference.

Once he was, at last, satisfied with its resplendence, he allowed himself to be taken over by the whirling sensation that would carry him to different places.

* * *

From Barty's snowy gaze, he could not look away. Not that he felt moved by his fate, he thought disdainfully. No, absolutely not. The interest he had in him was purely scientific.

Barty illustrated, he thought, the inherent closeness between power and decline.

Would he end up just as inert if he persisted on the path of spiritual mutilation?

Would the scarlet hue of his pupils take on that cloudy shade if he imposed one extra Horcrux on himself?

That many questions arose when he found himself, for the first time, in the boy's frosty aura. That many questions to which nobody would ever have an answer.

For he alone had had the audacity of stripping himself of several fragments of his being, thus pushing back the limits arbitrarily imposed by all of those that fate hadn't made visionary.

Therefore, from the meagre residue of soul that still dwelled within him, he drew his greatest power: his immortality. The more he mutilated it, the more his power expanded.

Conversely, the damage, extreme as it was, that the boy's essence had suffered, had had, as its sole consequence, a moronic and dependent state… in other terms, death.

The mystery that was presented to his insatiable curiosity by this soulless man was the only reason the latter was currently seated on this metal chair, instead of floating, his arms stretched sideways, down the river that flowed not far from there.

Of course, he wouldn't deny his disappointment upon learning the state the young man found himself in. The latter had always represented, after all, a great asset.

Besides, he had placed some great hopes in his person, from their first meeting on. The boy had proved to possess a significant intelligence, and a talent which, properly employed, could only represent a considerable advantage in the war he was planning to lead.

He had then put him under Bellatrix's control, and, unsatisfied to settle for merely instilling her knowledge in him, she had also passed her infallible loyalty on to him.

However, of all of those qualities, nothing remained, and he was therefore of no more use to him. Indeed, although his company was agreeable, he had always been first and foremost a mere tool… And for what bizarre reason would a sensible individual burden themselves with a defective tool?

Nevertheless, "burden" was in no instance the appropriate term, he had to admit. For it was only to Wormtail's time that the load of him was assigned. Moreover, he supposed, Barty would be able to turn into a carrier of unity among his ranks. He had been but a child when he had joined his organization, and a number of his servants had openly taken to him.

Perhaps he could turn him into a symbol. The perfect demonstration of what the Ministry would not shrink from inflicting on those of purest lineage, so that may be assured the protection of those whose muddy blood relentlessly infested streets, shops and schools.

Yes, he could get rid of him… or else he could set him up as a martyr.

* * *

Crutches and splints abandoned at the foot of her bed, she was limping back and forth across the corridor.

A quarter to seven, indicated the grandfather clock that hung upon the wall. The meeting would only begin after fifteen minutes, the Dark Lord had announced her as he walked by. Nevertheless, an incessant hubbub already filled the walls of the manor.

After what felt to her like fourteen more years, she found herself at last before the dining room, in which the pending gathering was to be held.

She was not surprised to notice that the furniture that usually decorated the room had been stored near one of the windows for the occasion. For as long as she could remember, the Dark Lord had always liked to move around freely among his Death Eaters as he gave out good marks… and punishments.

Only one velvet-sewn seat remained in the middle, a stool of similar composition set right beside it.

Not far from there stood about ten wizards who, identically dressed, dispensed embraces and good-natured teasing, notwithstanding the aversion their master had for any unnecessary racket.

Her gaze scanning time and time again the little, overexcited group, she couldn't see her husband anywhere. However, a man with similar features—though they were perhaps softer—gestured for her to come near. Walking forward as quickly as her pained legs would allow, she did not have to clear her way among her comrades.

Her reputation preceded her. Consequently, they all stood aside at the sight of her and, without bothering with any word of thanks, she allowed Rabastan Lestrange's once-forceful arms to wrap around her.

"Where is Rodolphus, Rab?" she asked, visibly worried.

"What do you mean, 'Where is Rodolphus?'! His location is just the same as it's been for the past three days, Bella."

"Could you elaborate, _please_?" she asked with annoyance.

She didn't much appreciate it when someone beat around the bush, or held more knowledge than she did herself.

"He was very unwell when Theodore found him," he began, obviously ill-at-ease. "He was quite delirious, and alternatively entered states of trance or lost consciousness. Side-Along Apparition is no easy task when the person one escorts won't stop convulsing…"

"Rab, get to the point. What happened?"

"Nott got him splinched, part of his left leg. His fever has slightly receded, but he is still unable to walk."

"I can't believe it, what a _goddamn_ incompetent! I swear to you, if Rodolphus doesn't get better, I will cut that imbecile's leg as well. For good measure, at least! And why, oh why hasn't anybody notified me?"

"Because we didn't know where you were! Theodore assured us several times that you were supposed to be staying with us at Mother's. We were starting to think that you'd been… demented," he said in a low voice. "Where were you anyway?"

"Here," she answered, as though that were the most natural thing one could think of.

"Here? You…"

"Now, what do we have here? You lot, plotting slyly instead of coming to greet your old friend Antonin! My, my, you aren't looking too good, Bellatrix," said the man who had just interrupted them, giving them a wide grin along with the remark.

With an expression of mock hurt, she had no time to point out that he certainly had to be getting her mixed up with the horrifying reflection his mirror forced on him every morning: indeed, the Dark Lord had just materialized at the opposite end of the room.

"My friends, my dear friends, a little more quiet, please," he said, demanding instead of praying. "Welcome, for the second time since my Mark has become yours, among my ranks. I hope that you will get back to your bearings and customs, as though you had never lost them at all. And that you will savour that freedom, returned by my efforts, of which you were deprived for so very long.

"However, before we may pay tribute to your return, my faithful Death Eaters, I am keen to ensure that we pay tribute to your sacrifice. Be sure to know that Lord Voldemort is just, and he…"

The words kept forming, one after the other, on his thin lips, but of none of them she could make out the sense. His voice, of which the modulations delighted her, hadn't ceased to reach her. Yet she was too bewitched by the display of perfection he offered to her fanatical gaze, and only perceived the sound as a soft melody that lulled her daydreams.

After so many years spent deprived of his presence, she had nearly forgotten the splendor he possessed. Thus, she couldn't but delight in the sight of him moving in such a manner, so gracefully, his flannel robes floating in his wake. She also loved the way he had of adorning his words with elegant gestures, his bony wrists bending, his hands marking the rhythm. And his way of never looking at his audience, as though to remind them that they were not worthy of such attention. But he was looking at her, at that moment, she was certain of it. She could feel his glowing red irises resting upon her skin, scalding its surface. Why should she be surprised? She alone was worthy of such consideration. She alone…

"_Bellatrix_. Three times."

The assembly guffawed as one.

"Yes, my Lord?" she asked, blushing.

"Ah, here she is again! Come forward."

She complied immediately, deliberately ignoring her laughing comrades, and it was with an outstretched hand and a smile on his lips that the Dark Lord met her.

He led her towards the small armchair in the middle of the room, and waited for her to take place there.

"Your legs, on the stool," he ordered in a low voice. His gaze lingering on those for a few moments, she saw his eyes narrow when he realized that she wasn't wearing splints, nor bandages. However, he made no comment, merely starting his speech again—where he had stopped it, she supposed.

"Bellatrix here has already chosen her reward. And maybe Azkaban made her altruistic, what would I know, but she decided to make her reward one that would serve each and every one of you."

One more time, they all snorted in laughter (she couldn't hold back a smile herself), having spent enough time alongside the witch to know that calling her altruistic fell within the province of antonymy.

"Indeed, she has requested that all of those who denied being affiliated to me be punished."

As she had expected, reactions streamed in as soon as the Dark Lord had punctuated his sentence. One or two people shook their heads, looking grieved, while Rabastan rolled his eyes. As for Antonin and Rowle, they whistled loudly to demonstrate their approval, while all the others approved more discreetly the reward she had opted for.

"Antonin, since you seem to be in such high spirits, hold out your arm."

Rowle patted him mockingly on the shoulder as he stepped, his left forearm outstretched, towards their master. The latter carefully placed the tip of his wand against the skull that was outlined there, a gesture that was followed with a series of bangs, when his servants converged from all sides.

They all knelt down, escapees and traitors alike, forming a circle around the Dark Lord, except for Bellatrix, who, at the latter's side, only observed the scene from her allotted place.

After a few beats of silence, height of them stood up again. The rest, obviously disturbed, both by their master's muteness towards them and by the prominent position offered to Bellatrix, were exuding anxiety.

"My Lord?"

"Yes, what is it?" he asked softly.

"I would like Barty to join us. I know that he won't be able to understand anything, but it seems to me that his place is here. He would have wanted to be present, I am certain of it."

"Wormtail won't be up to bringing him to us," he murmured.

"Is he in _that_ poor a condition, after your punishment?"

"Apparently."

"Such a weakling."

"That is for sure. So, Bella," he carried on, raising his voice again, "your choice?"

"Hmmmmm. Imperius Man," she said, a few sniggers rising here and there.

"Very good choice," he breathed. "Avery, it is you we are talking about, if I am not mistaken.

"Come forward."

"My Lord, I don't understand."

"Do you hear that, Bella? He doesn't understand…"

"Oh, I am certain that you will clarify the situation soon enough, my Lord."

"What is going on, my Lord, what have I done? I…"

"_Crucio_."

She watched with satisfaction as pain overcame every fiber of his being. His features, as mediocre as his rank, contorted in a travesty of a grimace. She would certainly have thought it to be theatrical, had she not been so familiar herself with the suffering that the Dark Lord could impose.

His eyes rolled upwards in their orbits, while his body was violently convulsing. She found it fascinating, the unlikelihood of the angle that the back of his neck now formed with his agitated body. As for his skull, it made a dull noise each time it collided with the floor. However, she would have paid it no attention, had she not had a passion for detail, so shrill his shrieking was becoming.

After holding him for ten minutes in that state, the Dark Lord eventually raised his wand. He came to crouch next to his servant, who clutched the bottom of his robes, pleading for mercy.

"Bella? What do you think?"

"More, please."

"No, have mercy, I'm begging you, have mercy…"

"I am afraid it isn't me you should be begging tonight. _Crucio_."

The shrieking started again, going crescendo, and it was with roughness that the Dark Lord freed himself from Avery's continued hold on his robes. The latter's hands kept tensing with desperation, but, as he found nothing to grasp but the ebony parquet floor, his nails dug into it, leaving tiny chips of wood behind.

One more time, he raised his wand.

"Bella?"

"Hmmmm… More, please."

Avery sobbed.

"Very well. _Crucio_."

He started jerking wildly again, but did not make a sound. However, Bellatrix noticed, it was not for lack of trying: his lips were so wide open that their corners were cracking. The floods of tears that had run over his cheeks nestled between the boards of the parquet floor, and when he began regurgitating blood, the Dark Lord put an end to his torture.

Bellatrix smiled. That was her favourite moment. The breaking point.

"Selwyn, take him out of my sight," the Dark Lord ordered, as he came to stand behind Bellatrix.

"You could have gone on a bit longer, he deserved it. He did not only renounce you, he claimed that he had to be under someone's control to follow you in the first place. He disgusts me."

"Ah, now I understand why your victims end up in St. Mungo's," he answered with an impish smile. "You have never known when to stop. Merlin knows I tried to teach you that."

"Maybe I simply do not want to stop."

"Maybe so, indeed.

"Who is next, Bella?" Voldemort said, a little louder.

She scanned the assembly and, for a moment, seemed to hesitate. They all equally deserved to suffer, and she didn't know what standard to choose to determine the order according to which they would be punished. It was at that point that she met the blueish eyes of a man she was more than familiar with. He had carefully placed himself, she noticed, hanging slightly back from the circle of flesh that they all formed.

She donned her softest smile.

"Lucius."

_End of chapter 5_

_Review, please?_

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Proofreading and translation by Azzie (Inkfire)

Author's note: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As you can see, for once, I posted it a few days in advance ;) I started chapter 7 already, but I don't know when I'll be done with it. What's sure is that you are going to get it within two weeks. Maybe less, I can't tell. Oh, and I shall modify the dates for each chapter, as I made a mistake in chapter 2-3 when I said it happened two days after the escape when it actually was three days. It doesn't matter for now, but it will when I will start the second half of this story.


	7. Chapter 7: The finery

Author's note: This chapter is a bit different than the previous ones. What you can see written in italic are extracts from the letter Bellatrix wrote to Narcissa in "shameful likenesses". Everything else is the actual chapter, from Narcissa's pov. Both parts are self sufficient but should be read together as they are also closely related.

Answer to reviews: Thanks again to everyone who took time to read, review or follow this story. Some people asked me if there would be more intimate bellamort scenes: the answer is yes, but in the next chapter. As I said in the note just above, this chapter is special. Keep it in mind, because it doesn't seem like it yet, but you'll see in the second part of the fic why I am saying that.

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor any of its characters. They belong to JK Rowling. I do not make any money from writing fanfiction._

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**Chapter 7: The Finery**

Jan. 96, six days after the breakout

_My dear Narcissa,_

Her hair, tresses woven with golden threads, adorned sumptuously her slim shoulders. So that it would not wander in front of her sapphire gaze, she had gathered part of it on her forehead, plaited into a precious crown. Her bearing living up to her appearance, she had put up her chin and straightened her neck, as haughty as her rank demanded.

_So many years have gone by, during which I have been unable to see you. I, who once knew everything about you, from your darkest secrets to your golden hair's every shade, I have nothing left but faded memories._

Her face's hard features, a pleasant contrast to her soft complexion, revealed nothing of the anxiety that had seeped into her since she had learned of her sister's release from her icy tower.

What would she do, if she found her as frozen as the walls that had held her for all those years?

For she might not know every secret that her heart contained, and she might have always kept away from the dark recesses of her soul, but she knew its contour perfectly, as well as every colour that filled it. Blue for her vanity, yellow for her magnetism and black for her power. Then, buried in the depths, pink for her gentleness. And what outshone them all—red for her pain. Red for her anger.

Red for her passion.

How could she bear to see her stripped of her every feature, her shades faded under the Dementors' yoke? How could she give the name of sister to a mere stranger?

_So many years have gone by, during which you have been able to enjoy freedom's generous fruit, and so many things must have happened to you. I am dying to find out about them. Therefore, I hope that you will accept to meet up with me._

_If you accept my request—and please, do so—I will ask that you show some great carefulness._

Such was her greatest fear: having left a sister at the entrance of Azkaban, and only finding a stranger at the exit. Or, at least, such it should have been. For her anxiety was not only attributable to the devastating effects the Dementors could cause.

She could be discovered in the presence of a notorious escapee, a well-known criminal, a wanted woman, she had constantly told herself.

She could be arrested and thrown into a world of frost and screaming.

She could be recognized as her accomplice, and then find herself with misery as her sole companion.

Yes, she feared for her life, she feared for her rank and, above all, she feared for her son, who would live deprived of a mother, and her husband, deprived of a wife.

Thus she had balked at granting Bellatrix's request. She had thought long and hard about it, reading again and again the words inscribed in Indian ink. But despite the terror and worry that haunted her, she had been unable to bring herself to follow reason. She had only listened to her heart, bearer of all the love her sister inspired in her and carrier of the blood that ran through the veins of one and the other alike.

_Your safety must remain the priority, and since, in that matter, yours depends on mine, it would be wiser to meet up in a location where we will run into neither glory-seeking Aurors, nor gold-digging scavengers. That is why, and believe you me, I can assure you that I would never have thought I would speak such words one day, I wish for you to join me at the place where we celebrated your sixteenth birthday._

Indeed, her heart alone could have led her to leave the warmth of her home, on a snowy day, to go to a common Muggle pub.

Not that she had always deemed that pub common, she remembered fondly. Quite the contrary, she had spent there the most memorable evening of her bygone youth. Ah, the determination she had had to display, so that she would be allowed to show herself there.

For each year, it was by a spectacular cotillion that the tenth day of June was celebrated. And although she loved to exhibit the prestige of her birth as well as the opulence of her resources, every one of these festivities resembled the previous one, just like it would be similar to the one that followed. None of these occasions bore witness of the full year which separated them each time—only the different cut of her dress and the changing curves of her body did. Thus she dreamed of novelty, thus she dreamed of exoticism. And most of all, although she was ashamed of having once entertained the idea, she dreamed of the forbidden.

That is how she found herself, the day before her sixteenth birthday, in Andromeda's company, busy rummaging through the living room of the Blacks' residence, looking for the key that had been forged for the lock of its greatest door, which a mere "_Alohomora_" had not sufficed to force open.

"And just where do the two of you think you're going?"

Both of them looked up from the bottomless drawers in which they had buried their forearms, searching desperately among the keys for the one that would open the doors to adventure. But there would be no adventure, she understood as she met the wrathful gaze that went along with the voice that had just called out to them. And perhaps she was simply not meant for any such thing, Narcissa resigned herself, as she found herself submerged by a feeling of nausea, her hands shaking, her heart playing percussions.

Andromeda took action.

"We can explain, Bella…"

"Quiet! I trusted you to look after her! And instead, what is it I catch you doing? Pulling her along amongst the filth of this land?!" she said as she gazed contemptuously at her clothing—trousers of some strange fabric they called denim, if her memory did not fail her, matched with a horrendously short top, entirely covered with sequins. "What is it you wish to turn her into, a blood traitor? Is that what you wish to become…?!"

"No, of course not, Bella, don't blow this out of proportion, we only wanted to see, just to have a laugh."

"See? You wanted to see? There is nothing to see that you wouldn't already know: Muggles are repulsive and primitive. That is all you require to know, and you don't need to see them for that. The erased ones have gone and seen them, and what did that bring them, mmm?"

Narcissa burst into tears. She could already picture the smoking hole on the tapestry, engulfing everything, from the N to the A_. _

"We didn't mean any wrong," she sobbed. "We only wanted to have a look and a laugh at their expense. We thought we'd keep that secret, we would never have dreamed of embarrassing the family with such a thing! But now I'm going to be removed, and my whole life will be ruined."

"Hush, calm down," Andromeda said as she put her arms around her, her nose buried in her hair. "That's enough, Cissy."

As for Bellatrix, she had stopped yelling. Indeed, although she hardly appreciated such displays, she had always had great trouble remaining indifferent to her younger sisters' sorrows.

_"_Don't talk nonsense, Cissy. I would never, and I mean never, allow such a thing to happen to any of you, do you hear me? Never_."_

"Do you promise?"

"Of course."

"We weren't going to do anything wrong, I swear it," Andromeda said. "Don't say anything to the parents, please, Bella."

The latter buried her face in her hands, as though beset by an insurmountable conflict. Through her slim fingers, she gazed upon her youngest sister's eyes, shining with tears.

"Thirty minutes!"

"I beg your pardon?" Andromeda asked.

"I said thirty minutes! And not one more. And I'm coming with you! Oh, and of course, you are not going out dressed this way, that is out of the question!"

Bouncing on the spot, they simultaneously threw their arms around her.

"That's enough, hurry up before I change my mind. And you would rightfully belong among the Muggles, by the way, judging from how you rummage around like common Squibs instead of using your wands. Accio key."

As Bellatrix was turning away to grab her handbag, she didn't see Narcissa winking at Andromeda, while the latter breathed "Very nice performance" into her ear, her lips, thankfully, masked behind a long golden curtain.

_I will leave it to you to pick a date and a time at your convenience._

For as long as she could remember, the two younger sisters had only needed to flutter their eyelashes to make sure Bellatrix would give in.

Yes, her oldest sister had, many times, taken upon herself some burdens that weren't hers to carry, so that her younger siblings would not crumble under the weight that came along with their noble heritage. She had done way too much, in the name of blood ties, for Narcissa to reject her, like Andromeda had for those past two decades.

Thus she currently found herself in the walls of the _Lance_, boredom taking over panic while Bellatrix's delay was growing longer and longer. Impatience slowly overwhelming her, her fingernails beat time over the light-coloured wood, matching the rhythm her stiletto heel had established fifteen minutes before.

_I will see to it that you be warned of any setback on my part. Awaiting to see you again, Cissy, here are a few instructions that you must absolutely respect. I trust you not to take account of this letter if you notice that it has been unsealed, or presents a new seal, different from the traditional one; to destroy it as soon as you are finished reading, and also to use the most discreet owl you can find. I mean by that that you mustn't use Olympe, nor one of the ridiculously conspicuous owls your husband is so fond of._

As the seconds turned into minutes, and the minutes accumulated, she wondered whether Bellatrix hadn't been stopped by some pressing matter. Perhaps an unexpected summoning from the Dark Lord?

No, she would at least have bothered sending her a notice to let her know.

Maybe she had had an unfortunate encounter on her way? She was, after all, actively sought after over the whole European continent, and it would have been no surprise if some Aurors had managed to track her down.

No, that wasn't possible. Bellatrix was… Bellatrix. No Auror would stand a chance against her… would they?

It was anxiety, all over again.

"Cissy?"

Taken off guard, Narcissa could not hold back a shrill little cry.

Bellatrix laughed. Narcissa pivoted in her seat to face the woman who didn't seem to care in the slightest that she had kept her sister waiting.

Wearing lace-up ankle boots which had her perched on a greater height than would have been necessary, Bellatrix was dressed in a close-fitting cobalt blue dress, from which her calves saw the end. But the thick fabric that composed it was clothing neither flesh, nor feminine curves. For of the one as well as the other, she was now deprived, her skeleton jutting underneath her skin. However, the sharp angles bound by straight lines, bends on her silhouette, showed no amount of discordance. Quite the contrary, the whole formed a masterpiece of proportions, Narcissa's gaze nearly refusing to admit it was absolutely natural.

She could see him clearly, that brilliant artist who, over blank paper the shade of her complexion, would let his lead wander, tracing Bellatrix. With jerky moves, he would invent her gaunt features and give life to the bony shapes of her. Then, his drawing complete, he would forget it in a corner, leaving the graphite residue of his tormented spirit to waste away. Dampness, dust and darkness would eventually get the better of her original radiance, without ever tarnishing the technical prowesses he had exerted while portraying her.

And it was indeed that, she supposed, that had been done to Bellatrix. She had been abandoned at the top of a tower on the high seas, at the mercy of darkness, first, of dampness later on, then of dust as time went by. Alone, she had crumbled there, her hair drying up, her skin growing pale, her flesh consumed. But the work of years could not strip her of that exactness with which she had been built since her very birth: be it the perfect oval of her face, the smallness of her nose, or the almond shape of her eyes; the fineness of her lips as the balance of her body. The whole had lost none of its harmony, although its aesthetics had been lessened, and Narcissa was quite glad of that: at least she would not look like an asexual rectangle, should she also come to be imprisoned, she couldn't help but think.

"Are you planning to ogle me for a while more or may I sit down, Cissy?" Bellatrix mocked, spreading her arms and spinning around.

"You are late."

"I know."

"And…?"

"If you expect me to apologize, you're likely to be sitting there for a while, Cissy. I have been imprisoned, not replaced by a copy of virtue."

Narcissa rolled her eyes, visibly irritated, although the impression made on her happened to be of a wholly different nature. Indeed, it was relief that she felt upon observing that Bellatrix remained, in some areas, the very same. Oh, of course, beyond her morbid skinniness, she had not failed to pick up on the awkward way she had of carrying herself, as she headed for the chair set just in front of her. She seemed to have trouble walking, a grimace twisting her features everytime she laid a foot on the floor. Certainly, she would have experienced less difficulties without the few inches she had judged it necessary to add to her five foot ten. Her believing she would be able to conceal her condition with a pair of high heels was hardly surprising.

Superficiality was the mother of appearances, their father had, indeed, relentlessly repeated to them.

"I haven't been so naive for a long time, Bella."

"I don't doubt that, not for one second," the latter replied, wearing a small smirk as she, with a wave of her wand, cleaned the seat of the chair before getting settled.

_Likewise, you will need to be on your guard, since our very close relationship implies that you must certainly already be under surveillance._

The waiter, behind the counter, dropped the quart jug he had set about cleaning twenty minutes before. Narcissa had noticed the way he hadn't stopped observing her, since he had approached to take her order. Or, rather, the way he hadn't stopped staring at the finely chiselled stick she had carelessly placed next to the coffee she would never drink. But whereas his expression had reflected but mere curiosity before, he now seemed utterly horrified, the mauve spark created by Bellatrix's wand mainly responsible for his fright.

The two sisters shot him a contemptuous look, a silent challenge he was much better off not rising to.

It seemed that he himself was aware of that, since he stayed back—although he couldn't break away from the scene that was unfolding in front of him—before backing off towards the service entrance.

Perhaps Muggles were less idiotic than they appeared, Narcissa pondered. Or perhaps they simply could sense danger. Like the wild animals they were.

"And to think that it is the children of this kind of scum that we allow to study in Hogwarts."

"Tell me about it. The mere notion of my son living between the same walls as those people makes me feel sick."

"Your son…"

"Yes, Draco," Narcissa smiled.

"You didn't…"

"No, I didn't have any others after him.

"Do you want to see him?" Narcissa asked softly, as she seized her purse, looking for the photograph she had brought with her. "Here, look."

Her sister gazed at the picture for a long time, her emotion obvious before she buried it beneath her usual marble mask.

"House?"

"Slytherin."

"Associates?"

"Nothing scandalous, Bella."

"Level?"

"Quite all right."

As she could have expected, Bellatrix frowned. Her elder sister considered, indeed, that only the first place was of any value. The Dark Lord had, for that matter, always seen to it that she would put this principle into practise in every circumstance.

Nevertheless, she made no comment.

"You did get through it all right, in the end. I couldn't stop thinking that should events turn for the worst, you would have no one you could rely on… Well, I did know that Auntie would always be there to look after you, of course…"

"Auntie? Walburga?"

"Yes, who else?"

"Oh, Bella, you have been away for so long… She left us two years after you were sentenced to prison."

"I don't understand."

"She is dead, Bella."

"Thanks a lot, I am not stupid. What I meant to ask is why? How?!"

"She let herself… waste away. There was Orion, then Sirius, and Regulus after that. Andie didn't improve things, of course, and eventually, there was you. Sometimes I think that things were better off this way, Bella."

"Did I never teach you anything at all? Our family line has lost one of its most respectable members, and you believe that it might be a good thing?"

"You are saying this because you haven't seen her by the end. She had convinced herself that she was damned, and that every Black around her was doomed to misfortune—be it betrayal, prison or death. She did not want to see any of us anymore, fearing we would suffer the same fate. And the one and only time we managed to visit her, what we saw nearly made us regret our efforts. She was in such a state of derangement, Bella. She shrieked at the walls to leave her alone, that they were repugnant Mudbloods and deserved to die. It is actually a true miracle that she had not destroyed them in a fit of insanity. And when she didn't believe she was submerged by filth, she was crying, over every portrait, at the foot of the family tree."

"Merlin… I would never have imagined that she would end up this way. I feel guilty about not having thought about her. I thought of you, of everything that might happen to you. Oh, God knows I thought about it. But Auntie? No. It seemed to me that she was made of iron. I would never have believed that she would suffer so much from it all."

"I think that it was merely the last drop, Bella. She must have been damaged for a long time."

"Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, erm… do you think that she resented me, for the scandal?"

"Walburga? Certainly not. Although I am quite sure that she hardly appreciated the bad publicity, she didn't fail to inform the walls of her home about how proud she was to have such a niece as you. I heard her screaming it to them more than once during my visits.

"Why do you ask? You can't have imagined that she would have…?"

"No, of course not. Well, actually, yes. Let us say that amongst other things I would usually never have believed, they convinced me of it in the end."

"Even if she had wanted to wipe you off the family tapestry, do you think I would have allowed such a thing to happen, Bella?"

"I am the one who is supposed to reassure you in such a way, you know, Cissy."

"Reassure me about what, Bella? I am doing perfectly well and I have a wonderful family. You are the one who has just broken out of this horrendous place, Bellatrix. You played your part to perfection when I needed you to. Perhaps the time has come for you to allow me to return the favour?"

"And what makes you think that I am not doing well?" Bellatrix inquired defensively.

Narcissa did not know what to answer. For so many answers existed to the question she had asked.

Be it the phantom of infinite sadness which seemed to haunt her, wandering among her thoughts, concealed beneath her sarcasm and her disdain. Just like the many bruises which marked her wrists, jewellery of skin that was well matched by the few hundreds of scratches on her palms, the bloody bandage on her left forearm completing the ornamental set. Or like the rings under her eyes, so deeply hollowed out that they nearly reached her cheekbones.

However, stressing the one or the other trait would only have stirred up the red, whose bright colour would run onto the pink she loved so much.

"If you say so. Admittedly, Dementors are known for the feeling of well-being they provide to those they guard."

"Cissy, stop provoking me."

"I am not provoking you, for Merlin's sake! You must open your eyes! You have to be realistic! It is normal that you aren't at your best. I know that it is important for you to refrain from displaying your weaknesses for all the world to see, but I am not the world, and you do not need to pretend that you aren't affected by your imprisonment before me."

"Nobody should ever complain about their suffering when it has been endured in the name of the Dark Lord, Cissy!"

"Aaaah, so that is the reason! And who said that, may I ask?"

"I say it! To suffer in his name is a honour! Whatever transpired in Azkaban, I only have the right to praise its symbol, and not to dwell over sordid details. Furthermore, I would appreciate it if you remembered who you are talking to, and thus refrained from putting on those superior airs. Don't you understand," she started again, "that the Dementors are nothing, compared to the life of a betrayer? That I wouldn't, not for anything in the world, swap those last fourteen years for the ones your Lucius had—Lucius, who, by the way, has certainly devoted his freedom to nothing but the act of wasting his family's fortune, so that he could decorate his gardens with whatever Gallifreyan peacocks he could find?!"

"Don't start laying into Lucius, he had nothing to do with everything you have gone through…"

"Be quiet, Cissy. For Merlin's sake, be quiet! I don't blame him for what he did to me, but for what he did to the Dark Lord. Or, in any case, what he didn't do! For all those years, I was gullible enough to believe that anyone who wore the Dark Lord's mark understood what greatness there was in sacrificing oneself in his name. But instead, what did the majority of them do? They renounced him, stating claims of conspiracy and manipulation… with Lucius leading the way! That wretched traitor, that vile deserter, that bast—"

"That's enough, Bellatrix! Enough! I didn't come here so I could listen to you deprecating Lucius! What would you have had him do? Go and throw himself into the Dementors' putrid hands, leaving me alone with a newborn son, the wife of a notorious criminal? Is that what you wish for your own sister?"

"Stop twisting my words, Cissy! I would never wish for anything of the sort to happen to you."

"Leave Lucius alone, then! He did nothing but to fulfill his duty as a father."

"No, Cissy. To be a Death Eater means that one should make the Dark Lord their priority, in every circumstance and no matter the consequences. I don't blame you for not understanding. How could you?"

"Oh yes, because I am much too stupid for that, you see."

"That is absolutely not what I meant. Quite simply, you have never lived in the glow of his magnificence."

Narcissa crossed her arms, the few bracelets around her wrists clinking against each other. She knew the words her elder sister would speak before they even formed on her thin lips. And there was no way she wished to hear them.

"Quite the contrary, Cissy. You are clever. Much cleverer than this imbecile you took as a husband. You could still join us and dedicate your talents to the Dark Lord's service. He could teach you so many things, you would go so far by his side."

"Bellatrix, don't start this again. My answer was no fourteen years ago, and it hasn't changed now."

"But Narcissa, just think…"

"No, Bella, no! I am not made for this. It is much too hazardous. Too dangerous. Lucius…"

"That name is never off your lips! Never mind Lucius, I'm talking about you, Cissy. You, not your son or your husband. When Draco is at Hogwarts and Lucius at the Ministry, what is it you do? Do you have a specific occupation? Any kind of occupation?"

"I, well…"

"Exactly!" she said, slamming her palm against the table, cup and saucer becoming victims of her vehemence.

The cold liquid spilled all over the dress Narcissa wore, its peachy pink colour now auburn in places.

"For Merlin's sake, Bellatrix, control yourself!"

"Forgive me, I didn't do it on purpose," the latter answered, as she ensured that the stained fabric would regain its pastel shade.

"I am perfectly satisfied with the life I lead, Bella."

"I know, I know. I got a bit carried away, it seems. It is merely because I am convinced that such an experience would do you much good. Moreover, the conflict… will soon be upon us. And those who won't be one of us will be our enemies. War doesn't tolerate neutrality, Narcissa."

"I am not neutral, Bella. The Dark Lord's cause is noblest and I support it fully. I merely cannot wear his mark. You said it yourself: anyone who binds themselves to him in such a way should make him their priority. Yet I wouldn't be able to act in such a manner. However," she started again, her husband's bloody hair dancing in her memory, "I can bring assistance in another way."

"Ah! And what might that be, if I may ask?"

_Do understand that I never could forgive myself if you were to suffer by my fault. I am planning to do everything in my power to ensure that will not happen. But if you don't give me any help, I am afraid I won't be able to succeed._

_Awaiting to see you again, Cissy, know that I am thinking about you._

_With all my affection,_

_Bellatrix._

Narcissa closed her eyes. Here it was, she thought, the point of no return.

For although she shared, in her heart, Bellatrix's allegiance, she did not wish to share it in her actions. Thus she had always kept her distances with the Dark Lord's affairs, aware of their dangers as well as of his cruelty. However, she had to act now.

For Lucius and his blue eyes that tears had obscured, so thick that they had moistened his skin and soaked his collar. Those tears she had thought to be legendary, like Vulcan's jewellery, and that had run all the same, clinging to his eyelashes, rolling down his cheeks, a cruel refutation to a seventeen-year myth. She had watched, helplessly, as they mingled with the dried blood that covered his skin, from lips to collarbones.

Narcissa took a deep breath.

"Two weeks ago," she began, "an unexpected visitor has presented themselves at the manor. He said he had gone to your house first, and had—as expected—found no one there. Having no other place to go, he came to knock on my door. We saw this as an opportunity to obtain valuable information for the Dark Lord, about the activities of the opposite party. We thus kept him in our home, as we awaited your return, for I knew that you would be able to draw much more from him than Lucius and I put together. He claimed to be in Sirius' service, you see."

"And who would that be?" Bellatrix asked, intrigued.

The terrible scene kept on playing, and she was helpless to pull the curtain over it. Lucius collapsing against the white marble of the atrium, spilling saliva and urine all around him. His uncontrolled sobbing as he clung to her bare thigh, his hands, jabbed with splinters, tearing the skin in their wake. Lost and distraught, she had embraced him, relentlessly repeating the same words, promises of a better future, of which she would stand as guardian. But she had not required to find out why he had been tortured this way. Had the Dark Lord ever needed motives to justify his viciousness?

She had to protect him from the latter's fury, no matter the cost. She had to help him get back in his good graces, so she would never again have to endure the spectacle she had had to attend during those last thirty-six hours. She refused to be but a silent spectator to her husband's suffering. And therefore she kept him in mind, and his imploring gaze, while she answered Bellatrix.

"You remember Kreacher, don't you?"

End of chapter 7

Review, please?

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Author's note: I'm sorry for posting this chapter later than I promised. You'll get next chapter as soon as possible. Bellamort is to be expected. Just saying. Until then...;)

Credits: Translation by Azzie (Inkfire)


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